Superchunk : Live at the Trocadero

Initially published here

I don’t know how many Superchunk shows I’ve seen over the years (a dozen? twenty? more?), but their recent performance at the Trocadero may have been the best one yet. On tour for the first time in eight years promoting their first new album in nine years, there was reason enough to expect little more than an exercise in '90s nostalgia. But said new album (Majesty Shredding) is on par with anything in their catalog and the six new tunes they sprinkled throughout their 90-minute set were greeted just as enthusiastically as their classics.

You could sense that the band was truly appreciative of the warm response to the new material. Frontman Mac McCaughan’s frequent gratitude never seemed less than genuine and hard-won. Alluding to a slightly less-than-excited Boston crowd the night prior, he suggested that perhaps drummer Jon Wurster was just a little goosed to be playing in front of his hometown crowd (Wurster is in fact from Bucks County, but we’ll let that slide). Whatever it was, his propulsive playing pushed every song just a little bit harder and his bandmates responded in kind. My initial disappointment at getting “only” 90 minutes was quickly forgotten as I acknowledged that it would have been damn near impossible to sustain such a high level of intensity for much longer. Even the handful of slower tempo songs (“Like a Fool," “Fractures in Plaster," “Kicked In”) were played with a rigor and forcefulness rivaling the most manic moments in the set.

And there were many manic moments -- “I Guess I Remembered it Wrong," “Hyper Enough," “Slack Motherfucker” and “Precision Auto," all rivaling any prior performance I’ve ever seen. In the eight years since the band last played Philly they have done sporadic one-off shows, several of which I’ve caught (two South by Southwest showcases and "The Daily Show"’s 10th Anniversary party come to mind). But I suspect that playing night after night, even if just for the two weeks of this relatively short jaunt, has brought them back to the peak of their powers. Let’s hope that more shows like this one at the Troc will encourage them to keep Superchunk going as something a little more than just the part-time endeavor it has become.

Neil Young : Le Noise

Initially published here

Neil Young never stops working. While many artists of his age and stature still tour regularly, new studio albums are few and far between. Maybe they’ve grown tired of the lukewarm response their new material receives when they attempt to wedge it into a standard greatest hits set. Or perhaps they have truly lost the drive and energy to write and record new songs. But here he is about to embark on his sixth (!) decade as a recording artist and he’s never slowed down. He released seven albums of new material in the ‘00s. By comparison Bob Dylan released three, the Rolling Stones and The Who one each and … hell, I guess you run out of contemporaries pretty quickly (recently, Eric Clapton and Van Morrison are just as likely to cover other writers’ material than compose their own).

This is not to suggest that quantity somehow trumps quality. You’d be hard pressed to find a bigger fan (and I’d bet my Archives Vol. 1 Blu-ray collection on that), but when push comes to shove, I’ll admit that he hasn’t released a truly great record since Sleeps with Angels in 1994. Now, there’s only one out-and-out dud in the ten he’s released since then (2002’s well-intentioned but musically lame Are You Passionate?). But by and large, each new LP features a small handful of gems surrounded by a lot of half baked ideas and ill conceived concepts. You sense his excitement behind each new idea, whether it be melding a choir to a collection of grungy protest songs (Living with War) or writing an environmental rock opera (Greendale), or several odes to his electric Lincoln Continental (Fork in the Road), but often the ideas are less than worked through and he loses steam well before the end.

Which brings us to Le Noise, or “What’s Going On in Neil’s Head Circa 2010.” Much has been made of Daniel Lanois presence as producer. I’ve never been much of a fan -- his ‘atmospherics’ or ‘sonics,’ or whatever the hell he wants to call them, frequently obfuscate the material he’s working on (Bob Dylan and U2 are both better off without him). But here, his touches seem to be limited to the copious addition of reverb and the occasional looped sample. Maybe it’s because he has physically less to work with; these songs feature Neil and his guitar and nothing more. Not to say that this is an acoustic record. Some of these songs rage as good as anything he’s done since Crazy Horse’s last truly raucous moments on Ragged Glory. I can’t help but hear a thundering rhythm section in my head on tracks like “Walk with Me” and “Hitchhiker," but I appreciate his desire to leave these songs room to breathe.

The sparse arrangements leave us with the songs themselves and Le Noise, simply put, has a better batting average than any Neil record in a long stretch. The melodies stick around a little longer, the lyrics are more focused, and his singing is passionate and nuanced. There’s a lot of reflection on age and loss. Neil lost two dear friends and collaborators this year with the passing of Larry Johnson and Ben Keith, and their memory haunts the record, as well as Neil’s subtle acknowledgement that his time is growing shorter as well. And then there’s the aforementioned “Hitchhiker.” Originally performed on tour in 1992 and sporadically ever since, this is the first time it has appeared on record. It is a frank and honest accounting of Neil’s history with drugs, from hash to speed to pot to coke. But it’s a catalog, not an apology. He ties them to moments in his life -- moving to America, divorcing Carrie Snodgrass, incessant touring in the mid-‘70s. You sense he’s trying to work through the attraction and the song is better for leaving the question unanswered.

At 64, he’s older but he’s not conceding any wisdom. This is a man still working things out, still questioning his actions, and still reaching for something just outside his grasp. May he never get where he’s trying to go. The trip itself is much more interesting for the rest of us. (Reprise Records)

Temple Grandin

Initially published here

This made-for-HBO movie seemingly offers the superficial trappings of the standard three-hanky biopic, including a plucky, misunderstood heroine who overcomes a tremendous physical/mental handicap to achieve personal greatness while teaching us all to be better people. That it manages to avoid almost all of the clichéd trappings of the genre is a testament to the talents of its creators as well as the bona fide remarkable story it tells.?

Diagnosed at an early age with autism, Ms. Grandin was fortunate to be surrounded by a loving (and financially well-off) family that were able to provide her access to teachers and mentors able to bring out her remarkable abilities by recognizing how her brain operates differently from most (she talks of being a primarily “visual thinker” and has the ability to recall incredible amounts of detail from images seen for even the briefest of moments). After attending a boarding school for gifted children she went on to earn a bachelor’s degree in psychology and ultimately a doctorate in animal science. An aside: Her interest in animals (specifically cattle) is handled extremely well here. This is a woman whose life work has centered on the design and operation of slaughterhouses, a potentially explosive subject when dealing with someone as otherwise sympathetic as Ms. Grandin. But the film does an excellent job conveying Grandin's notion that respect for animals and their quality of life does not and should not to be anathema to the meat industry (As per Ms. Grandin, “Nature is cruel, but we don’t have to be.”)?

Director Mick Jackson uses playful visual and auditory cues to bring us inside Temple’s world. The film is never heavy-handed and even in its darkest moments finds an unusual, quirky way to cut the tension inherent in the subject matter. It keeps you just slightly off-balance at all times, well in keeping with its main subject. The same can be said of Claire Danes’ performance as Grandin. She manages to be both likable and emotionally resonant, quite the achievement when playing a woman who readily acknowledges that emotional issues and personal relationships are not a primary concern of hers. If, on occasion, the film falls back on some standard generic tropes -- when we see her wince at the touch of her mother, for example -- we wait in anticipation for her to overcome these “challenges." To the film’s credit, when she finally does, it is dramatized in ways that are more subtle than expected. And that’s true of the film as a whole: It has every opportunity to hit us over the head with the power of its story -- and it is a remarkably powerful one -- but it never does.

Jacob's Ladder

Initially published here

Since its release in 1990, the film has been known, first and foremost, as a “Gotcha!” movie. “Gotcha!” movies invariably feature an out-of-left-field twist, typically right near the end, which triggers a desire to reevaluate everything you thought the film was about right up until that moment. Because of this, many “Gotcha” films tend to be either loved (“My God, I never saw that coming!”) or loathed (“My God, I saw that coming from a mile away!”) strictly on the strength of their twist.

Jacob Singer (played by Tim Robbins fresh off his breakthrough role in Bull Durham) is a Vietnam veteran trying to make sense of his new life stateside when he finds himself plagued with nightmarish visions of demons trying to kill him. When he finds out that other members of his platoon are suffering the same harrowing thoughts, he attempts to find out if the Army is somehow responsible. And then … jeez, I guess journalistic decorum obliges me to not give away the twist to a 20-year-old movie. Does anyone out there who doesn’t already know going to have any interest in watching the film now? How about this -- I’ll just reference “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” and leave it at that.

The problem with most of these films is that they typically don’t hold up well to the reverse scrutiny that they seem to demand. Much of the film’s plot, character development, heck, even individual shots and sounds, don’t make any sense when considered in light of the “Gotcha” moment. Jacob’s Ladder is truly pretentious in its pretending to be much smarter and intellectually rigorous than it actually is. As a horror film, however, it holds up surprisingly well and much of its more frightening imagery is still capable of instilling dread during a quiet, late night viewing.

This Blu-ray edition is short on the “Wow” factor that many people have come to demand from the new format. What we get instead is simply the best looking and sounding version of the film ever on home video. There seems to be a significant amount of grain in the imagery which is in keeping with many of the film’s grim locales (subways, VA hospitals, some decidedly un-gentrified NYC neighborhoods). I suspect this is as good as the film has looked since its premiere.

Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence

Initially published here

I had avoided Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence for years on the assumption that it was a Bridge on the River Kwai-style war film -- all khaki and olive green, stiff upper lips and inscrutable ‘others.' Quality cinema to be sure, just not my cup of tea. Instead, I discover this hothouse melodrama of unspoken lust and unrequited love between the obsessed Captain Yonoi (played by Japanese pop star Ryuichi Sakamoto) and Major Jack Celliers (played by rock icon David Bowie).

The film was directed by Nagisa Oshima, whose remarkable career stretches back to the late ‘50s and includes such legendary work as Cruel Story of Youth, Death by Hanging, and the equally florid In the Realm of the Senses. He brings his intense, passionate sensibilities to the story of a Japanese POW camp where British soldiers are being held towards the end of WWII. The camp is running relatively smoothly thanks to a begrudging understanding between Colonel John Lawrence (Tom Conti) and Sergeant Hara (Takeshi Kitano, back when he was primarily known as a TV comedian and long before he made a name for himself as a director). But into the relative calm comes Major Selliers and Captain Yonoi, the camp’s director, is smitten. The tension mounts as both the Japanese and British soldiers begin to understand the Captain’s unspoken feelings. Emotions reach a fever pitch when Selliers kisses Yonoi (formally, on both cheeks) in an effort to keep him from killing a British soldier. The camera begins to literally shake as if the Captain’s passions can no longer be restrained.

It’s a simple and literal expression of his longing and an amazing moment to witness. Unfortunately, we know things are now destined to end in disaster for both men.

Criterion’s Blu-ray edition of the film captures those khakis and greens with an intensity missing in prior home video versions. The disc is loaded with extras including new interviews with Conti and Sakamoto (who also composed the film’s pulsing electronic score). The disc’s only short fall is that while it includes English subtitles for Japanese dialogue, there are no optional English subtitles for the entire film. These would have been helpful as Captain Yonoi often speaks to the British soldiers in broken English that is difficult to understand. Still, a small quibble with what amounts to another remarkable Criterion release.

Heartbreaker

Initially published here

I suspect the vast majority of American movie-goers equate foreign language films with a certain level of quality. Maybe ‘art’ isn’t the word that crosses their minds, but the assumption is that in other countries movies are taken more seriously and the people who make them have concerns that go beyond entertainment and diversion. This is understandable when you consider the preposterously narrow access to foreign language films afforded the U.S. film audience. We just don’t get to see the … um … let’s say, the dozens of highly contrived and formulaic romantic comedies the average Parisian is subjected to every year, for example.

Which bring us to Heartbreaker, a French rom-com as stultifying as anything churned out by modern Hollywood. The plot revolves around Alex (Romian Duris), a professional destroyer of romantic bonds. He and his team are hired to break up bad relationships where the woman just can’t see for herself what a mistake she is making. The film goes to great lengths to explain that Alex doesn’t split up happy couples (he wouldn’t be very likable if he did that, right?). No, he only takes on assignments when his ‘team’ is confident that it is for the best of the woman involved. But, of course, they are desperate for cash and Alex is desperate to prove old daddy wrong (he says Alex always chickens out when things get tough) so they take an assignment where it’s not quite clear what’s wrong with the soon-to-be-married couple. The fact that the movie never really makes it clear what is wrong the groom in question, other than the fact that he is not as desperately charming as Alex, is only one of its innumerable problems.

Then there’s the film’s reliance on lame pop culture references as a sort of shorthand for why two people should be together. Alex finds out that Juliette (Vanessa Paradis) is a George Michael fan and a Dirty Dancing buff and uses this to win her heart. Are we really to believe that people only need to share tastes for trashy '80s icons to fall in love? And when it’s all thrown aside in the end (please don’t tell me I’m spoiling this for anyone) you never feel that there was anything much else to bring these two people together. Duris is pleasant enough (if a little vacant), but Paradis is a complete bore and, sadly, cadaverous in her wedding gown.

Very quickly I found myself watching the film with only one thought on my mind -- how long before it is remade with Bradley Cooper and Blake Lively as the leads. Throw in Joan Cusack and maybe Zach Galifianakis as the wacky secondary characters and you're set. Just make the potential groom just a little more of a dick (so no one gets upset when they split) and you’ve got an easy $20M opening weekend.

My Dog Tulip

Initially published here

Paul Fierlinger has been animating film for over half a century (he was an original animator on "Sesame Street" in 1969), but this is the first feature film that he and his wife Sandra have completed. It is a faithful adaption of J.R. Ackerley’s memoir of his life in the company of a beloved German Shepherd, Queenie, in London in the ‘40s and ‘50s (publishers changed the name of the dog over concern that the dog’s real name would lead to people mocking the author’s homosexuality).

Despite the subject matter and playful visual style, I would be hard pressed to say that the film is truly family fare. It devotes a great deal of time to the more earthy concerns of dog ownership (I speak of defecation, urination and copulation). But to make a film about one’s relationship with a pet without covering these matters would be dishonest, and in detailing how Ackerley deals with these things, you ultimately appreciate his unconditional love for the dog: He gets from Queenie/Tulip what he never managed to find in human companionship. From the memoir -- “She offered me what I had never found in my life with humans: constant, single-hearted, incorruptible, uncritical devotion, which it is in the nature of dogs to offer.” Whether or not this is something we should want or expect from another human being is a question not raised, sadly.

You would hardly be blamed for assuming that My Dog Tulip is a lovingly hand-crafted animated film steeped in traditions rendered extinct in the wake of digital technology. It has the look of detailed book illustrations. There’s little effort expended trying to make motion seem fluid or realistic -- objects appear to be pushed across the screen by an unseen hand. Most dialogue is spoken in voice-over (primarily by Christopher Plummer, with smaller roles played by Isabella Rossellini and the late Lynn Redgrave) and not tied to mouth movement. And, frequently, the water color imagery gives way to simple pencil drawings as if they were pages torn out of an illustrator’s sketch book. Lovingly hand-crafted it may appear, but the reality is that the film was made utilizing the same advanced technology to which it would seem to exist in defiant opposition. The filmmakers drew every frame at their home (in Wynnewood, PA) using a digital pen and a computer tablet over the course of two-and-a-half years. The film includes a credit explaining that not a single piece of paper was used during its creation. I found this declaration almost as charming as the film itself, a clear-eyed, adult look at a relationship rarely explored so honestly on the screen.